The Big Bad Wolf

something else in mind, another kind of message. I leaned in close and said,
“Kyle Craig did this to you.”
I wanted him to know, and maybe pay Kyle back someday.
    Maybe with
zamochit.

Chapter 115
    I HOPED TO GOD it was over now. We all did. Ned Mahoney flew back to Quantico that morning, but I spent the rest of the day at FBI headquarters in lower Manhattan. The Russian government had filed protests everywhere they could, but Andrei Prokopev was still in custody, and State Department people were all over the FBI offices. Even a few Wall Street firms had questioned the arrest.
    So far, I hadn’t been allowed to talk to the Russian again. He was scheduled for surgery, but his life wasn’t in danger. He was being grilled by someone, just not by me.
    Burns finally reached me at around four o’clock in the office I was using at FBI New York. “Alex, I want you to head back to Washington,” he said. “Flight arrangements have been made. We’ll be waiting for you here.” That was all he told me.
    Burns signed off, so I didn’t get the chance to ask any questions. It was obvious that he didn’t want me to. Around seven-thirty I arrived at the Hoover Building and was told to go to the SIOC conference area on five. They were waiting for me there. Not exactly waiting, since a shirtsleeves meeting was already in progress. Ron Burns was at the table, which wasn’t a good sign. Everybody looked tense and exhausted.
    “Let me bring Alex up to date,” Burns said when I entered the room. “Have a rest, kick back. There’s been a new wrinkle. None of us are very happy about it. You won’t be either.”
    I shook my head and felt a little sick as I sat down. I didn’t need new wrinkles; I had more than enough already.
    “The Russians are actually cooperating for a change,” Burns said. “It seems that they’re not denying Andrei Prokopev has Red Mafiya connections. He does. They’ve been monitoring him for some time themselves. They hoped to use him to penetrate the huge black market still coming out of Moscow.”
    I cleared my throat.
“But.”
    Burns nodded. “Right. The Russians tell us—now—that Prokopev is not the man we’re looking for. They’re certain of it.”
    I felt completely drained. “Because?”
    It was Burns’s turn to shake his head. “They know what the Wolf looks like. He was KGB, after all. The real Wolf set us up to believe he was Prokopev. Andrei Prokopev was one of his rivals in the Red Mafiya.”
    “To be the Russian godfather?”
    “To be
the godfather—Russian or otherwise.
”
    I pursed my lips, took a breath. “Do the Russians know who the Wolf really is?”
    Burns’s eyes narrowed. “If they do, they won’t tell us. Not yet, anyway. Maybe they’re afraid of him too.”

Chapter 116
    LATE THAT NIGHT I sat at the piano on the sunporch with one of Billy Collins’s poems running around my head. It was called “The Blues.” It inspired me so much that I sat at the piano and made up a melody to go with the poem.
We had lost to the Wolf.
It happened a lot in police work, though nobody wanted to admit it. Lives had been saved, though. Elizabeth Connolly and a couple of others had been found; Brendan Connolly was in jail. Andrei Prokopev had been caught. But we seemed to have lost the big one—for now, anyway. The Wolf was still out there. The godfather was free to do what he did, and that wasn’t good for anybody.
    The next morning, I arrived early to meet Jamilla Hughes’s flight into Reagan National. I had the usual butterflies before her plane got in. But mostly I couldn’t wait to see Jam. Nana and the kids had insisted on coming to the airport with me. A little show of support—for Jamilla. And for me. For all of us, actually.
    The airport was crowded but seemed relatively quiet and peaceful, probably on account of the high ceilings. My family and I stood at an exit from Terminal A, near the security check. I saw Jam, then so did the kids, who started poking me. She was wearing black from head to toe; she looked better than ever, and Jamilla always looked good to me.
    “She’s beautiful and
so
cool,” Jannie said, and lightly touched the back of my hand. “You know that, don’t you, Daddy?”
    “She is, isn’t she,” I agreed, looking at Jannie now, rather than at Jamilla. “She’s also smart. Except about men, it would seem.”
    “We really like her,” Jannie continued. “Can you tell?”
    “I can. I like her too.”
    “But do you love her?”